Pathway to Japanese Literature

**Title**: The Arabian El Afui

I

El Afui, the marathon race champion born in French Algeria, entered the basement bathhouse while limping slightly.

It was the evening of August 5, 1928.
It was a bathhouse attached to the Olympic Stadium located on the outskirts of Amsterdam.
Though it was August, being in Northern Europe, he who had grown up in the African desert already felt autumn on his skin.
After running the twenty-six and a quarter mile marathon course since three in the afternoon and taking off his French national team jacket with its sky-blue fabric emblazoned with a red rooster, El Afui remained so exhausted that he was experiencing hallucinations.
The pure white finish line tape that had seemed to charge toward the red rooster on his chest from ahead amid the roaring crowd—this still appeared to be shaking violently up and down on the bathhouse wall.

He suddenly strained his ears.

He thought he had heard a brass band permeating the evening sky from the direction of the stadium.

"Hmm, I wonder if the last runner has made it in."

The brass band vanished in an instant, and the long whistle of the Amsterdam-to-Paris express train trailed off as it cut through the air.
He suddenly felt homesickness.

El Afui’s chest still heaved like a fish’s as he lay on his back in the bath.
He had black hair exactly as racial science textbooks prescribed—a broad copper-hued forehead and an oblong face—yet the pomade in his disheveled locks was authentically Parisian.
The Coty hair oil had been a parting gift from neighbors in Paris’s working-class quarters.
He grimaced, shut his eyes, twisted the shower handle, and under the warm cascading rain became ensnared by visions straddling hallucination and memory.
—A windmill by the canal.
White cloud.
Summer grass.
Woods.
Girl.
Dog.
Butterfly.
And Plaza from Chile who’d pressed relentlessly at his heels throughout, never falling more than ten meters behind.
Yamada from Japan with cheekbones sharp as a ukiyo-e print.
Martelin from Finland—majestic flaxen hair perfectly offsetting blue athletic wear.
—The stadium’s main gate blaring old-fashioned fanfare to herald the champion’s arrival.
Cheers.
Then finally press photographers encircling him in sunset’s elongated shadows.
Record: two hours thirty-two minutes fifty-seven seconds.

—the voice was clamorously announcing.
And immediately after that, he—as if lying in the bathtub now—lay on his back atop the field's grass facing the evening clouds, being bathed in photographic flashes......

The door opened quietly.
He thought the team’s masseur had come.
Then, the one who had entered as if sneaking in was a young man wearing a journalist’s armband.
He was a slender-faced man with an innocent gaze and Parisian-style attire.
The young journalist approached El Afui’s nude body somewhat bashfully, as if drawing near to a sculpture in an art museum.

El Afui panicked, wrapping a towel around his waist as he shouted.

“Who are you?
“You?
“Which newspaper?”

“Excuse me, Monsieur El Afui.”
The journalist blushed even more bashfully.
“I’m, um, from Le Temps.”

“It doesn’t matter which paper.
“I’ve made it clear I only do group press conferences,” El Afui declared, waving his hand and sending droplets flying.
“Besides, this is a bathhouse!
“And I’m naked!”

“I’m sorry.
“I’m sorry.
“I’m well aware.”
The journalist became flustered and started speaking rapidly.
“I’m also a Parisian like you.
“Moreover, I’m from the same Montparnasse as you.
“The same town!
“I had been watching your marathon practice every morning at the same street corner.
“We attend Sunday Mass at the same church too!”

“So it’s M Street then?”

“That’s correct.
That’s right.
Paris may be a shrewd place, but Le Temps is even more so.
The editor-in-chief ordered me to outmaneuver other papers for an exclusive interview.
They put up a special bonus.
So I thought about it.
‘Alright,’ I resolved, ‘I’ll give it my best shot.’
Here’s an introduction letter from your close friend.
It’s from Georges the boxer.
I even raced around searching for Louis the weightlifter.
But he’s in prison now.
We’re all from the same town, aren’t we?
You must know dancer Anna too.”

"That's enough.
That's enough."
El Afui smiled for the first time.

“That’s right. We’re all from the same town, aren’t we? Everyone must be celebrating tonight. The cafés must be lively tonight, I imagine—where did you watch the race?”

“At the ten-kilometer point of the canal on the return leg.”

“So that’s where I caught up to that amazing Japanese runner, huh.”

“That’s correct. That Yamada seemed to have injured his leg. We shouted ourselves hoarse cheering from the speedboat. Didn’t you catch the pure Parisian accent?”

“Yes, I think I did hear it. It was a beautiful canal, wasn’t it.”

“Our voices must have resonated well across the water surface.”

“When I caught that cool breeze from the side at that spot, I suddenly regained my energy. By the way—what is it you want to ask? I’ve already talked about the race details at the joint press conference.”

"That's right."
"I know full well."
"That's not it."
"What I want is an exclusive."

“Exclusive material, you mean?”

“Your romanticized origin story—that’s what I need.”
“A desert boy rising to become Olympic champion—that’s the narrative arc.”
“Something unconventional yet vivid.”
“Prose worthy of Jean Cocteau.”
“Truth be told—I’m really an aspiring novelist.”

“An origin chronicle, then?”
“—A man reared among sand and flies has no childhood idylls to recount.”

“This complicates matters.”
“Where precisely in Algeria were you born, Monsieur El Afui?”

“It’s a tiny, tiny village called Biskra.”
“It’s three hundred miles from Tunis.”

“That Biskra?”

“How come you remember a nameless village like that?”

“I read about it in a novel.”

“Ah, I see. That book’s quite famous, isn’t it?”

“All of France’s youth are reading it now.”

“That author must have become quite an esteemed figure by now, I wonder.”

“He’s the pride of France.”
“He’s France’s Nietzsche.”
“Though he’s spoken of like a devil in church circles—but you, why would an athlete know about such writers?”

“I knew that man in his younger days—assuming he’s the same person you’re thinking of.”
“He stayed in our village for a long time.”
“He was an idol to us native children.”

“Is that true?”
The journalist suddenly grew animated.
“This is marvelous! You remember his name clearly?”

“Of course I do.”
“That man was called André Gide—gravely ill he was.”
“He seemed troubled in mind too—detested white civilized folk, preferred red-coppered ones like us.”
“Loathed Parisian women’s flowery dresses, loved the glossy hides of horses and antelopes.”
“He was—an uncanny man.”

The sun had completely set.

The massage therapist entered and guided El Afui, who had finished drying his body, to the bed in the adjacent adjustment room.
The journalist followed behind, carrying El Afui’s athletic gear and shoes.

II

“I was originally conscripted into the Algerian garrison army and selected as a messenger relaying between units in the desert.”
“Because I had sturdy legs since childhood.”
“So before I knew it, I had become a person suited for long distances.”

El Afui lay prone on a bed as simple as those in field hospitals at the center of the room and slowly began to speak over the massage therapist’s shoulder.

“The one who remembered me was Mr. S from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, who had served on the Olympic Preparation Committee.”
“Mr. S was formerly a captain attached to the main force in Tunis.”
“For this reason, I was drafted from the auto shop on Maréchal Street where I worked to Colombes Stadium for training.”

“I don’t have the sort of romantic upbringing you’re looking for.”
“As I said before—I was raised among sand and flies.”
“And there’s no special reason why I took to sports.”
“We Algerians never knew peaceful living from the start.”
“My legs were just strong like a colt’s.”
“So I ran errands for white folk to earn pocket money.”
“That’s all.—Maybe instead of this dull story, I should tell you about my ties with that writer gentleman?”
“—If it helps your article.—Must’ve been twelve or thirteen years back now—”

Having his neck pressed by the massage therapist and burying his face in the pillow, El Afui fell silent for a moment.
However, that silence was fitting for someone chasing distant memories.

"It was a certain clear winter afternoon.
Amatal, our childhood friend who had sneaked into the garden of the only hotel in the village, suddenly vaulted over the earthen wall and came fleeing breathlessly into the village square.
We were playing hopscotch and tests of strength in that square.
I was certain Amatal had stolen something and come fleeing here.
However, what he pulled from his pocket was some sweets and two sous in small change.
To our surprise, those sweets and copper coins had apparently been given by the white couple staying at the hotel.
Even though he had been caught sneaking in, they had given them to him with kind words, or so it was said.
We had never encountered such treatment from white people.
The white travelers we knew were not such kind people."

"This is what I heard from Amatal.
'That couple was truly quiet.'
Moreover, they were newlyweds.
The husband had coughed up blood during their travels and ended up at this hotel, where he remained lying on his back recuperating from lung disease for a long time—apparently.
'It was an illness that could mean life or death,' they said.
Strangely enough, unlike white people's usual habits, Madame rarely stayed by his side.
The difficult husband apparently preferred solitude.
Madame would always sit knitting modestly at the entrance to the adjacent room.
Here lay Amatal's opportunity with his thieving tendencies—so he thought."

Amatal kept it secret even from us companions and lay sprawled on the hotel’s earthen wall for days, patiently awaiting his chance.
Then that day arrived.
It was a quiet Sunday.
On Sunday mornings, this young Madame customarily went out to attend Mass at church.
At nine in the morning, Madame entered from the terrace into the interior.
The blue sky filled every glass door pane with its reflection, and in their shadow lay her husband seemingly fast asleep.
Now’s our moment, Amatal thought.
He vaulted over the wall, hurried across the garden, and seized the scissors resting on a chair at the entrance to Madame’s vacant room.
They were expensive scissors that gleamed brilliantly.

At that moment, Amatal was struck by a loud burst of laughter from behind. Amatal experienced terror as if laughed at by a ghost—his body stiffened and he stood frozen in place. He was dazzled by the reflection of the blue sky in the glass door. Upon entering the shade, he now realized for the first time that he was being directly watched by the gentleman in nightclothes who had sat up on the chaise longue immediately behind the large glass door—a lean, long-faced French gentleman with a goatee and large, deep eyes, tall in stature. Amatal panicked and turned pale. The scissors that fell from his hand landed on the stone pavement with a loud clatter. At that moment, Madame, who had been tending to her hair, rushed over and seized Amatal by the arm—her grip calm but firm. Madame was truly calm but a strict Catholic believer. Madame had not yet gone out to church that morning.

Amatal, resigned to being turned over to the police, completely hung his head.
However, the husband’s eyes were shining abnormally, and with an overflowing smile, he said to Madame.

“Marie, let him go now.”

Both Madame and Amatal, startled by the gentleness of his voice, stared at the husband.

“This is Africa. Look,” the husband cheerfully surveyed the sun-drenched room filled with glaring reflections. “How’s that for stealthy footsteps? How about the way he lunged for the scissors? It’s precisely like the cunning a hawk employs when stalking prey. Just as a feeble rabbit can’t argue with a hawk, you who left scissors on the chair can’t scold this child. Ah, this remains Africa after all! A new world!” He lifted both hands, voice swelling louder. “Now release his arm and give the boy some coins.”

Amatal hunched his back in embarrassment, and upon realizing that Madame’s hand had pressed the copper coins and sweets into his palm, he darted straight out and vaulted over the wall.

“We village children were astonished when we heard this story.
"This was strange."
We thought this conduct unlike any white traveler we had encountered before.
And from then on, every day we would climb onto the hotel’s earthen wall to observe the guest rooms visible in the distance.
In time, I finally became acquainted with Madame.
'Because my mother had taken on doing Madame’s laundry.'
'Because my mother, being mixed-race, was a Catholic who spoke French.'
'Such being the case, I too came to serve as Madame’s errand runner.'
'Because I too had been taught some French by my mother.'”

“I came to carry out Madame’s errands faithfully but found myself unable to grow close to the husband at first.”
“However, through an unexpected incident, I came to feel a sense of closeness toward this husband as well.”

One evening, the garrison doctor came galloping to the hotel on horseback.
It was said that Monsieur Gide’s condition had worsened.
I watched with a heavy heart as the bellboy’s reddish-yellow lamp moved beyond the glass doors to receive the physician.
The examination dragged on.
All voices stayed hushed; every movement remained restrained.
I sensed something ominous and stole toward the terrace to sit on the stone pavement.
Soon came whispers of departure, then fading hoofbeats beyond town.
After some time, Madame returned alone in silence.
She placed one lamp by her husband’s pillow and kept vigil with the other in hand.
Thus I first saw both their faces illuminated together.

For an instant, Madame leaned down and brought her lips close to her husband’s forehead.
I tensed up.
To tell the truth, we village children used to find it amusing to peek at such scenes involving honeymooners on several occasions.

However, I heard a voice entirely different from what I had expected.

“Marie, you shouldn’t pray for me.”

It was a cold voice.

“You shouldn’t pray for me.”

Once again, the husband repeated.

“Why, André?”

“I detest being protected.”

“You won’t heal if you’re alone.”
“Poor André.”

There was a long silence.
I gazed up at the stars streaming high above the eaves.

“Well, can’t be helped then,” the husband said, seeming to turn over.
“Do as you please.”

“What do you rely on?”

Madame asked in a low, reproachful tone.

“What do you rely on?”

When Madame asked the second time, her voice had changed to a tearful one.
For some reason, I could no longer stay and fled from the terrace.
Scolding away the barking dog, I vaulted over the earthen wall.
Yet when I emerged into town, I felt strangely cheerful.
That imposing Parisian gentleman with his splendid beard was being admonished by his wife about matters of faith.
Just as Mother would scold me for lacking belief, his wife now lamented his disbelief.
This was extraordinary.
He too was a comrade who hated sitting through numb-legged church services—for a wild child like me, this discovery thrilled.
Beneath that transparently clear starry sky, I felt I’d found common ground between that husband and myself.
“For the first time, I felt kinship with him.”

III

"After about a month, the husband was finally able to go out onto the terrace."
"The husband lay back on the chaise longue and remained silent for a long time, gazing at the desolate landscape spreading across the distant hotel courtyard."

Though called a hotel, being in the village of Biskra, it was a single-story building with white lime still coating its walls, its terrace made vast enough by local custom to appear weathered. From that terrace beyond rows of palm trees lay an orchard at the town's edge, while past the oasis rose a desert climbing in gradual tiers to spread across all horizons. One morning I entered the husband's sickroom for the first time to help clean—the very room where that mysterious conversation had been whispered during his life-threatening illness at midnight's brink. Madame, my mother and I shifted beds and chairs to scour every corner. The room stood starkly bare, devoid of landscape paintings. They said the husband had ordered that cheap oil painting removed. There remained that glass door through which Amatal had once glimpsed blue sky imagery, now framed like a picture opening toward the terrace. Therefore what filled his gaze through severe illness was this desolate desert vista contained within that great frame.

I found two small photographs displayed atop the bookshelf.
One showed a gentle-faced old man with a black mourning ribbon affixed.
The other appeared clipped from a magazine print—the profile of a bold middle-aged man with large piercing eyes, a thick mustache, and an ineffably compelling charm.
First pointing to the photograph bearing the mourning ribbon, I asked Madame.

“Who is this?”
“That is Monsieur’s father.”

Madame used to refer to her husband as Monsieur when speaking to us.

“He passed away very recently.”
“We—so that we could set his mind at ease while his father was still alive—hurried to get married.”

What an antiquated air this had.
Wasn't that marriage more Arabic in style than French?
At any rate, I finally understood why Madame always wore a black hat, black veil, and black garments when going out.
Taking advantage of Madame's unreserved manner, I inquired about the other photograph too.

“Who is this?”

“That is—Monsieur’s teacher.”

Madame seemed to hesitate for an instant.

“So, a professor at a university in Paris?”

“That’s incorrect.”
“That person passed away quite some time ago.” There was somehow a resonant quality in Madame’s words, as though filled with emotion.
“That person left his homeland far behind—always yearning for high mountains—hating God—writing many poems and essays—dreaming of supermen—being nursed by his sister—and finally passed away mad, you know.”

“Do you mean a superman?”

“Yes, what’s called a superman.”
“It means a human beyond humans.”

“Is Monsieur a disciple of this person?”

“No, Monsieur never met this person during their lifetime. However, Monsieur read this person’s books and became engrossed, saying their teachings were beautiful. It was the same with our trip. I believe that our coming to Africa for our honeymoon instead of going to Switzerland or Italy was likely due to this person’s influence as well. This person—a man of mysterious charm—is the one who, I believe, distanced Monsieur from God. Well, let us stop this conversation now.”

“Madame, who is this person?”

Madame smiled modestly, as was her habit.
“It’s better not to remember that person’s name—instead of that, please clean my room this time.”
When I entered Madame’s room, it was small yet fragrant with a lingering dampness.
Wildflowers framed the cross on the wall, while beautiful portraits of saints adorned every available space.
I was admonished by my mother and made to pray properly.

“After another month, as his condition gradually improved, Monsieur became increasingly cheerful. To get his legs accustomed again, he began taking walks with us village children as guides. Monsieur progressively extended his walking distances. Eventually we reached the orchard at town’s edge that had been visible from that terrace—a monotonous orchard crisscrossed with countless irrigation ditches called ‘Segiasu’ in our local dialect. Monsieur would take long rests on a shaded bench among us children. Sometimes he read poetry books there—that tedious bench where turtledoves’ faint cooing could be heard. We amused ourselves by knocking over corks and playing hopscotch. One day at this bench, Monsieur secretly learned to drink palm wine away from Madame’s notice when a liquor peddler woman came hawking her wares upon hearing our voices—this brew made by cutting palm trunks to collect their dripping sap. Under a clear blue sky, Monsieur drank it holding an earthen jug aloft. He closed his eyes awhile savoring it fully before finally turning his smile toward us for the first time.”

“What’s wrong, Monsieur?” I asked.
“Is it that sweet?”

“It’s splendid! This is sweeter than any French wine!”

Monsieur suddenly imitated us by tearing off his shirt and, becoming bare-chested, drank the wine again. His appearance in that state resembled an ancient mural.

“Monsieur, please stop—it’s bad for your health.”

However, Monsieur seemed not to hear my attempts to stop him and muttered as if to himself.

“Ah, drinking palm wine under a cloudless sky at the height of noon—I never knew this could be so enjoyable—I must have built up my strength.”
"I did not die."
"I am alive."

The sun blazed down on Monsieur’s bare body.
Monsieur began sweating across his chest.

“Monsieur, I beg you—please put on your undergarments.”

When I asked again, Monsieur surprisingly obediently put on his shirt.

"Ali, don't tell Madame about this."

Like a mischievous child, Monsieur winked at me.

“This is a problem... Monsieur, why don’t you ever take your wife with you when you go out?”

“Why would you ask such a thing?”

“Because all the white guests walk hand in hand with their spouses.”

Monsieur laughed with a voice that echoed through the orchard.

“Do you enjoy seeing white couples stroll together?”

“I hate it. White couples act even more self-important when they’re together.”

Monsieur laughed loudly again.

“You’re absolutely right. But my wife is different.”
“My wife is a gentle woman—she prefers staying at home.”
“And besides...my wife detests these barbaric habits of mine.”
“If she knew I drank this local wine completely naked—oh, that wife of mine would weep and start praying.”

IV

"As his health was recovering in this manner，Monsieur became no longer satisfied with mere strolls through the orchard."
So one day，as if on a whim，he suggested going to see my father’s house.
My father’s house was located in a horse market slightly outside town，and my father was a veteran elder of the market.
Father’s house was a single-story building of rough earthen construction surrounding a sandy courtyard，with what might be called its main gate formed into a high vaulted entrance that could admit riders on horseback.
After all，it was an extended family，so from morning onward，everyone in the house was each doing as they pleased.
When I took Monsieur there，Father was tending to horseshoes.
Sister was at the wellside lowering a water jar and drawing water to sell in town.
Brothers were lying around half-naked while maintaining their rifles and playing flutes they had presumably stolen.
However，when they realized I had brought a white guest，they all stood up at once and fled into the back.
Monsieur watched this spectacle with great amusement.
“The white hoods and robes，struck by the sun as they darted about in disarray，were beautiful，” he said.

My father, perhaps as a gesture of welcome, roughly drove away the goats and pigs and instead led out his prized colt from the stable to show Monsieur.
"You must know how we Arabs cherish Arabian horses."
However, faced with a guest in unfamiliar clothing, the colt suddenly pricked up its ears and reared.
The sturdy colt shook free from Father’s grip and bolted off, grazing past the guest’s chest.
Father was thrown clear, exposing the old man’s ungainliness as he futilely tried to pursue.
Instinctively, I ran diagonally toward the main gate.
My agility was renowned even among my brothers.
Under the vaulted archway, just as I reached the thoroughfare’s edge, I caught up to the colt.
I leapt sideways two meters to seize its mane and clambered onto its back while being dragged along.
Now the colt was indisputably mine.—When I later rode it circling the courtyard, Monsieur’s amazement was profound indeed.
Is what we call humanity’s supreme joy found in such moments?
Monsieur exulted with his entire being.
It seemed not me—the one who had captured and mastered the horse—but Monsieur the spectator who radiated life’s triumph.
Monsieur now struck my limbs—fresh from conquering the horse’s back and oozing blood from scrapes—so fiercely it pained me, crying out:
“Ah, such prowess!”
“How enviable!”
“And these mighty muscles!”
“Ah, this surpasses any Arabian steed!”
“Even the finest colt lies utterly vanquished before you!”

"I was so overwhelmed by the praise that I turned red and lost my composure, but Monsieur was immensely pleased and obliged my father’s Oriental-style banquet for hours until sunset."

When February comes to Algeria, sudden heavy rains continue unabated, and on those rare sunny days between downpours, the temperature climbs markedly.
This was Africa's herald of spring.
Monsieur and Madame Gide began preparing to relocate to Sicily to escape this deluge.
After a fortnight's stay there, they were said to return to convalesce in their Norman homeland.
My mother, sister and I assisted with the mountain of packing.
On their departure day, the stagecoach bearing Monsieur and Madame set out along newly laid railway tracks toward Constantine.
I ran alongside the carriage for half a kilometer with Amatal, Basil and Boubakel.
Even after the other boys grew winded and collapsed by the roadside, I alone kept running without end.
When the road finally met the sand dunes, I halted and waved until my arm ached.
Through steam rising from rain-drenched earth, I watched the carriage dwindle to a speck.
With that sight, I became certain I'd never again meet that Monsieur in this life.
A healthy boyhood carries within it an instinctual drive to shed bygone events—you understand.
Thus from the very next day onward, I found myself wholly absorbed in entirely new concerns.

“However, quite unexpectedly three years later Monsieur suddenly came to Tunis.”
At that time, using the French I had learned from my mother as my foundation, I became a specially contracted guide at a hotel in Tunis.
One evening I was at a Sudanese-run café frequented by older guides.
Though called a café, it was a dubious tented establishment where in the innermost room lay low beds barely thirty centimeters above the floor—there the older guides drank liquor and smoked opium with Arab-born dancers.
As dusk fell the southeast wind blew, making the tent canvas flap heavily.
Then without warning a white gentleman lifted the tent flap and peered in at us.
The gentleman entered with his studded travel boots clattering, their tips brushing against the ceiling as he came through.

“Ali El Afui.”
“I finally found you.”

The gentleman suddenly crouched down and tightly embraced my shoulders.
It was at this moment that I first realized this was Monsieur.
Because Monsieur had shaved off that well-shaped scholarly chin beard and transformed into a sunburned, broad-foreheaded, sturdy-faced man.

“What’s wrong, Monsieur?” I was indeed flustered in the opium smoke.
“How did you find such a place?”

“In Biskra, I heard you were working at a hotel in Tunis.”
“And at the hotel, I heard about this café where guides congregate.”
“You—haven’t grown up as much as I’d expected.”

“What do you mean by that, Monsieur?” I asked back discontentedly.
“I’ve grown fifteen centimeters since then, you know.”

“I know, I know,” said Monsieur with his same old smile.
“What I mean is that all the children of Biskra have grown to a frightening degree.”
“They’ve all grown tired or fat or rich and turned ugly. Only Moktir remains as beautiful as he was in the old days.”
“And you’re the only other one.”

“Is that so?
Everyone has changed quite a lot, hasn’t they?
Monsieur, who did you meet?”

“Basil had become a dishwasher at a café.
Ashur was barely scraping together five or six sous through roadwork—Amatal—I never would have imagined.
He’d lost an eye and was unemployed now—Ajibu was working with his father at a butcher shop.
He’d gotten all bloated and dirty, but he’d made money.
So he wouldn’t even speak to down-and-out friends—Boubakel had gotten married.
He was only fifteen—how absurd.
He drank liquor and his muscles had gone slack—There was nothing left to expect from Biskra anymore.”

“You mentioned meeting Moktir earlier, didn’t you, Monsieur?”

“Ah, Moktir alone is the exception.”
"He’d gotten out of jail and gone into hiding."
“He remained the most beautiful among them all.”
“Seems he took up thieving again.”
“His body kept its agility without fault.”
“I hired Moktir for two days.”
"And you’re the only other one, Ali."
“Why aren’t you worn out?”
“How do you stay so vigorous?”

“The Algerian Athletics Federation oversees me, you know.”
“That’s why I can’t neglect my health.”
“Even I value my own talent.”

“Hah. So the hawk’s finally started sharpening its claws, has he?”
“But you’re the one who’ll do that, I suppose.”

Monsieur pointed to the opium pipe left behind by the older guides.

“Don’t be ridiculous.
If I did that, I couldn’t run—Monsieur, you’re the one who does it, I suppose.”

“You mustn’t speak jokingly.
I detest things like getting drunk and forgetting time’s passage.
Even at night, I keep my eyes open—so much that I want to clearly count each moment’s passing.” Monsieur’s face grew radiant as he raised his voice.
“I find each instant of every day unbearably precious.
The scavenger birds basking on this continent’s plains, the lions chasing antelope—they don’t live by some preordained schedule.
For them, each instant is an entire lifetime lived at full intensity.
Precious instants that consider neither atonement nor anything else.
Everyone will perish through ready-made happiness.
They don’t know tomorrow’s affairs, so they play safe and bear many children.
They’ll keep breeding forever.
They all create their own happiness.
I—was nearly suffocating from ready-made happiness and returned here again.
I left Marie in Normandy.”

“How is Madame doing?”

“Poor soul.”
“That gentle woman caught my consumption.”

“After all her devoted nursing of you.”

“Ah yes, how devotedly she nursed me.”
“But Ali—”
“I cured this illness myself.”
“It was I who effected the cure.”

I recalled that dramatic midnight conversation from several years ago.
I felt a heaviness and tried to change the subject.
At that moment came a rustle of fabric—the Arab woman from before had returned.
This woman was my senior guide’s mistress.
The three of us entered a cramped inner room.
Here too stood an exceedingly low bed where guests customarily sat.
In the room’s corner huddled a Persian cat—likely hers—watching us intruders with nervous eyes.
Having perhaps grown reassured, it began lapping goat’s milk from my palm.
As I amused myself with the cat, the woman drew Monsieur to her side.
Tense minutes passed—if one could call it that—of this man and woman’s mutual antagonism.
At length Monsieur hoisted her level with his gaze in both hands and vanished beyond the curtain into the inner chamber.

When I awoke on the soft carpet, the morning sunlight was already slanting in, mercilessly illuminating the dust of the room.

The next day, Monsieur received a telegram informing him of his wife’s critical condition and hurriedly left the port.
Deep regret and the struggle to regard that regret as the act of a weakling were vividly etched on Monsieur’s face.
“This was the last time I met with Monsieur.”

"The following year, I was conscripted into the Algerian garrison.
"I was assigned to Tōgūru’s squad and entered the interior.
When we advanced this far, the desert spread out utterly without limits, and communication between the moving squads still relied on dispatching messengers during that time.
Therefore, what the recruits disliked most was being assigned as messengers.
It was always men who were utterly incapable—those who could serve as beasts of burden—that were selected for that role.
However, at the very first physical examination, I passed with flying colors.
I was met with uproarious laughter from my colleagues and was hoisted up.
Even the nighttime women who were fixtures of the barracks laughed and watched me together.
I became displeased and even thought about swinging a dagger, I tell you.
Arabs are skilled with daggers, you see—but what made me feel a quiet pride deep in my heart at that moment was that very theory Monsieur Gide used to repeat like a mantra.
I affirmed that theory to myself alone, muttering 'Yes, yes.'
I gradually came to feel the allure of his philosophy.
I willingly became a model messenger.
Ghardaïa Desert Military District—Ouargla Military District—El Goléa Military District—all alone, I would run for hours between oases where squad after squad rested, the sun-shading cloth attached to the back of my hat fluttering, kicking up small sand clouds, listening to my own footsteps as I went.
Often, I would see both the sunrise and the moonrise in the same distant reaches of the undulating sand dunes.
In such moments, I experienced firsthand the teachings from the geography textbook that stated the Earth is round and spins forever.
In such moments, I profoundly experienced the teachings from the Catholic primer that stated humans are very small beings.
Yet it was precisely in such moments that I felt to the brim in my chest the ancestral human vitality Monsieur Gide had taught me, savored it fully, and became utterly arrogant in the desert.
Gazing out over each wave of sand formed by the wind as it was struck by morning light, noon light, evening light, I became arrogant with my entire being.
And the commendations and resumes from my four years as their most faithful messenger proved more useful than anything when I later went to Paris."

―In the Great War, I belonged to a mobile unit.
I fought against the Turkish Army in the Near East and received three meritorious service medals.
My cheerfulness, my agility, and the composure arising from my somewhat critical view of civilized society became reasons I was well-liked by many people, both at the Athletics Federation and at my workplace auto shop.
This is a gift from Monsieur Gide.
I have doubts whether my African memories are indeed pleasant for Monsieur Gide, so in Paris I never visited him.
Moreover, Monsieur Gide is now one of France’s representative intellects.
But even so, every Christmas we send greeting cards in our names as a couple to Monsieur Gide and Madame Gide.
Unfortunately, my mother passed away five years ago.
My wife is this mother’s niece.
We have a four-year-old daughter.
“This child also goes against Monsieur Gide’s principles—she’s always sick, a weak, weak child.”

El Afui indulged in reminiscence for a while and fell silent.
The Le Temps journalist developed greater goodwill toward this athlete’s character than he had anticipated.

“Monsieur El Afui. Do you have any mementos of Monsieur Gide in your home?”

“Indeed, there are only two left now. One is the dagger Monsieur Gide gave me. The other is a hand mirror that Madame Gide gave to my mother—quite an elaborate piece. Within its mosaic pattern are engraved the words that the Lord bestowed upon Peter: ‘Thou mayst walk where thou wilt now; but when thou art old, thou shalt stretch forth thy hands…’”

The journalist stepped out into the now completely darkened outdoors.
He was still savoring the pleasant afterglow of having met someone well-intentioned.
He emerged into Amsterdam's old-fashioned city center and searched for a post office.

The telegram he had sent to Le Temps’s Paris headquarters was as follows.

"Marathon winner Mr. El Afui granted me a special audience immediately after the competition and spoke at length about the colorful first half of his life."
"The manuscript will be dispatched tonight."

Five

It was early September in Paris.

As promised at three o'clock in the afternoon, Madame El Afui visited the Sacred Heart Sanatorium behind Monsou Park, bringing along her four-year-old daughter.
It was an 18th-century maison-style building of refined taste.
When she handed the letter of introduction from Madame Gide to the white-robed nun who had opened the entrance door, she was immediately shown to the director’s office.
The nun said, “There is a board meeting today, and Madame Gide is in attendance.”

Dr. Jiro’s office faced a quiet garden dotted with tree clusters.
A marble Madonna stood at the lawn’s center, yellow chrysanthemums heaped at its base.
This arrangement remained visible through sun-filtering blinds from within.
The dark green wallpaper made Madame El Afui perceive it as continuous with the dense trees flourishing beyond the window.
In a shadowed corner’s glass tank, tropical fish traced faint phosphorescent arcs through the water.

The door opened, and in came Dr. Jiro - white-haired and wearing an examination gown with a stethoscope around his neck - along with Madame Gide, a slender-faced woman also touched with some gray in her hair.

“Please have a seat.”
“Now, this young lady here.”

Dr. Jiro offered a chair to the guest and then sat down himself in the swivel chair.
Dr. Jiro had already heard about this sickly daughter’s condition from Madame Gide beforehand.

The origin of the matter lay in Madame El Afui having delivered an embroidered Dutch souvenir fabric sent by her husband from Amsterdam to Madame Gide.
Madame Gide met with this gift’s sender at the Sacred Heart Society office，but their conversations tended to falter quickly.
The only common topics were matters concerning his deceased mother and activities of the Sacred Heart Society.
What saved them from this awkwardness was his sickly daughter.
When his daughter suddenly complained of feeling unwell，Madame Gide had her lie down on a sofa in the guest room.
Attending invalids had been part of Madame Gide’s household duties for decades.
When she checked her temperature，there was a slight fever.
Her complexion looked pallid too.
Right then，Madame picked up the telephone receiver and requested a diagnosis from Sacred Heart Hospital’s director.

Dr. Jiro applied his stethoscope to the girl’s chest and back in practiced sequence and carefully took notes.
Soon he stood up and guided the mother and child to the next room.
It was the X-ray room.
To the daughter’s eyes, accustomed to the beautiful afternoon sunlight, that place suddenly felt like darkness.
The daughter’s face twisted into tears from fear.

“There, there. It’s all right, it’s all right.”
Dr. Jiro said in a tone meant to lift the girl’s spirits.
“Many friends around the same age as the young lady have entered this room.”
“They all said they weren’t scared at all.”
“There, it’ll be over soon.”

The daughter, dressed in undergarments, stood before the X-ray machine but hung her head with a miserable expression and clutched the undergarments with both hands.

“Come on, Flo.
Stand up straight,” Madame El Afui said.
“You always do this during school gymnastics, don’t you?
If you don’t stand up straight, it won’t show up properly.”

The daughter stood upright while sobbing.
The heavy sound of the X-ray rang out.
The examination was over.

Dr. Jiro asked his assistant to develop the negative.
Then he invited the two back to the original room.
There, Madame Gide was holding several X-ray photographs up to the window light and examining them against it.

“Excuse me, Madame El Afui,” said Madame Gide.
“I am consulting Dr. Jiro about my husband’s condition.”

“Is Monsieur unwell again?”

“That isn’t precisely it, but my husband has received an invitation to the Soviet Union this time.”
“They say it’s a mysterious country, and since it doesn’t appear particularly conducive to health either, that is why I’m consulting him.”

Dr. Jiro called a nun and arranged several X-ray photographs from Madame Gide’s hands in chronological order before having them hung on a rope stretched across the white wall. It resembled nothing so much as a photographic negative of international flags displayed in rows. What hung there was not an image of the writer Gide himself, but rather a stark negative of animal-like ribs. The ribs spread their branches as firmly as withered trees. Madame El Afui instinctively turned her face away.

“Madame, viewing it this way, I find no issue with traveling to the Soviet Union except midwinter—yet what truly fascinates me here is Monsieur Gide’s health across different eras.”
Dr. Jiro indicated one of the photographs with a bamboo rod like a schoolmaster’s pointer.
“This shows the year he hemorrhaged.”
“The right lung appears completely clouded, you observe.”
“This constitutes the core issue.”
“Additionally, here lie two cavities easily missed by unaided eyes.”
“This marks his most critical period.”
“Here’s the following year’s image.”
“Some improvement occurred that year, yet opacity persists.”
“But observe this subsequent year’s radiograph.”
“The healthy lung regions—no, every sound part throughout his physique—converge in coordinated action to resist this diseased portion.”
“Precisely thus.”
“A masterful envelopment maneuver, wouldn’t you agree?”
“The latter phase signifies victory—when Monsieur Gide proclaims ‘I cured this illness through mental fortitude,’ that claim holds partial scientific validity—though my interpretation diverges somewhat.”
“This cosmos abounds with mysteries beyond human comprehension.”
“—From celestial mechanics to insect behavior.”
“These X-rays exemplify that truth.”
“Why should healthy tissues mount such splendid resistance against corruption?”
“In reality, none can say.”
“Whose design?”

“Who orchestrated this?”
“Since when did it become thus?”
“How long shall it persist thus?”
“It remains a mystery no mortal can fathom.”

Everyone in the room fell silent for a while.

Madame El Afui stood up and, showing a reserved smile, exchanged handshakes with each person.

When they stepped out into the street, the dark green of the avenue trees now seemed like an extension of the quiet director’s office.

The bus came and stopped in front of the mother and child.

(January 1929.
Revised in February 1957)